


Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

by PrinceofCinders



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Country AU, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Hunting, Irondad, M/M, Multi, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark - Freeform, Peter has to hunt animals to survive, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Western AU, Wild West AU, sorry his whole family is dead, spiderson, vague mentions of animal death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 12:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16702375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceofCinders/pseuds/PrinceofCinders
Summary: Peter Parker, living alone after the passing of his family, finds a mysterious wrecked wagon belonging to one Tony Stark. This will bring him into the line of sight of powerful people, for good or bad. He has to make the decision; to allow others into his life at the risk of them leaving, or perish like the rest of his family.





	Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

**Author's Note:**

> no betas we die like men
> 
> Also, this is a weird AU. I've been playing too much Red Dead Redemption 2 lately so I wanted to write a wild west sort of AU, but I've had a hankering to write Irondad stuff. So I decided to mix the two. This is my first attempt in about a decade to write a chaptered fic with a legit plot. Please be patient with me; I graduate college in a about a semester on top of working two jobs, so updates aren't exactly scheduled. The first chapter is short to test the waters; the next ones will be much longer!  
> Please tell me what you'd like to see in this story and what I could improve on!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the Parker bad luck.
> 
> Also known as curiosity killed the cat.

The morning dawned crisp and clear with the suns rays weakly filtering through the dense foliage. Huffing into cupped hands, Peter Parker took stock of the meager rations left on the rickety dining table. A couple cans of beans and something called salted offal he’d seen his late Uncle eat on occasion. Peter grimaced. He’d rather not reach the point where that looked even remotely appetizing.

“Looks like I can’t put off hunting anymore, Aunt May, Uncle Ben. I’ll be back in time for supper with something,” he spoke aloud to the empty cabin, gently pressing a kiss to a picture frame holding a weather photo of an older couple. Peter slid on a warm leather jacket, rolling the cuffs to free his hands for the bow slung on his back. He trotted out the door and into the woods, scanning side to side for signs of life.

Luck was on his side; there were fresh deer tracks leading toward the river. He followed for a while, checking his traps laid the night before. Most were empty, but two held pheasants which he clipped to his belt. As he neared the river he slowed down. There stood half of a herd; a strong doe, two button bucks, and a couple smaller does grazing off to the side. Peter trained his sights on an elderly doe, clearly past her prime and limping. He notched an arrow, took a deep breath, and let it fly in a graceful arc toward the doe. It hit the mark. The other deer fled and Peter approached, gently cupping the does head and murmuring a heartfelt prayer with a gentle press of his lips against a velvet ear.

Peter salvaged every part he could and decided to turn back as it was nearing twilight. He whistled happily and picked up the pace, making a detour to a main road that ran past the woods. No one appeared to be out today but no matter. The boy trotted along the road, searching berry bushes for any early yields. The sun continued its slow descent and was nearly swallowed by the mountains when Peter came across an unusual sight. A deep maroon wagon was turned on its side and nearly smashed in two with horses nowhere to be found. Peter cocked his head wearily and drew a hunting knife, approaching the sight quietly.

There was no one in or around the glorified pile of wood. The only sign there had been anyone at all were the dried stains on red on the white canvas sheets covering empty chests which had also been ransacked. Peter stepped back from the wagon and gazed around with his hands on his hips, troubled expression crossing his youthful features. His eyes caught on the faintest flash of silver, nearly covered by the upended wagon. Peter kneeled and wedged his knife under the heavy wood, grunting with the exertion of heaving it up. He was able to grab the silver thing and quick as a whip, grab his knife and let the wood fall with a resounding _crack!_

The thing he had grabbed was clearly a rifle and a high quality one at that. He had no time to examine in further detail as the ominous sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, promising a nasty night if he didn't get home. Peter stowed both the knife and muddy rifle and nearly flew home in a panic, the booming of thunder urging him onward. He banged open the door of the modest cabin just as the first fat drops of rain began to hit the brim of his hat.

The brown haired boy sighed with relief, slumping against the doorway and unlatching his game to put on the table. He likewise took off his weapons, eyeing the firearm with interest but the rumble of his stomach made a convincing argument in favor of other pursuits. He plucked the birds and set the fire to boil, adding what little he could to make it appetizing. As his stew simmered over the crackling warmth, he finally turned his attention to the muddied rifle that was beginning to dry out.

Peter kicked off his dirty boots and sat on the floor, pulling a dented cup of half-clear water towards him as he set to work cleaning the firearm. As he began to clear the dirt away, Peter was filled with an ever-growing sense of dread at what he found; the silver gleamed almost unnaturally bright on the butt of the rifle and spelled out one word.

_Stark_

The most well-known and rich man in the world and Peter found a rifle made by him? Never mind the fact that he wouldn’t be able to afford a Stark firearm even if he sold his life away, what in the world happened to the man’s wagon? Peter was hopelessly puzzled and continued to turn the rifle over, hoping that some other thing might be inscribed. Hey, if lost, please return to Anthony Stark of Yorktown! Peter snorted at his own thought. He sorely hoped whoever was in that wagon got away safely. The main road was well known for raiding teams of bandits or the occasional gang hoping to score a quick buck from unwitting passerby. It was more likely the bandits got off worse than whoever was in the wagon. Mr. Stark had an equally famous peacekeeper team comprised of the strongest people; Steve Rogers, a sheriff. Bucky Barnes, an ex-outlaw pardoned for his crimes by helping the town in the last major bandit raid and saving the life of Stark himself. Natasha Romanoff, a Russian immigrant as deadly as she is beautiful. Dr. Bruce Banner who assisted Mr. Stark with creating fantastic inventions. Clint Barton who was a world-renowned archer and Thor Odinson, a loud and robust man rumored to be a mysterious prince from a foreign land.

Had one of those powerful people been in the wagon, it surely wouldn’t have been ransacked. They could easily pick apart anyone that tried to mess with a Stark carriage…..

Peter shook his head in a frustrated manner, brown hair flopping into his eyes. He rubbed his thumb along the trigger guard thoughtfully, tracing the intricate patterns welded along the barrel. Even though Mr. Stark was the wealthiest man alive, he deserved to have his gun returned to him. Besides, it’s not like Peter even desires to use a gun. Not after what happened to his aunt and uncle.

Resolving to return it in the morning, Peter wrapped it in a coarse linen cloth and laid it to the side of the table, turning to his stew and eating with gusto. With the food he caught today, he wouldn’t have to go out for a while yet if he rationed it properly. The boy ate fast and cleaned the table and the dented pots he used for cooking. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a spare piece of parchment to write his questions down lest he forget them in the morning.

_What happened to whoever was in the carriage? Are they okay?_  
_How do I give the rifle back to Mr. Stark?_  
_Who crashed the wagon?_

 Peter read over his short list, nodding decisively and placing it next to the rifle. He decided to set out early tomorrow for Yorktown where Mr. Stark lived in hopes of returning the gun to him and getting some of his questions answered. The boy stripped off his jacket and cocooned himself in a pile of patched quilts on a lumpy straw mattress, whispering a soft goodnight to the picture on the mantle. He hoped tomorrow would turn out okay, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach.

The storm should have been his first clue.


End file.
